She nodded with a knitted brow, her mouth dropping open. James knew something was about to come out, and physically winced in advance.
“I like him.” A raindrop settled on her red-smeared lips. “I really do, and I’d love to write him. I’ll write him every day. If you do something for me. For us.”
The attendant scratched the back of his balding head. “What, exactly?”
“Tell us about Mr. Blanchard. Tell us everything you know.”
He held up the hand that wasn’t being used to hold the umbrella. “Now, you know I can’t do that — you’re not—”
“The family, we know,” James groaned.
“But there isn’t any family, is there?” Mrs. Wylit took a step forward, unmindful of the rain. It spattered in heavy droplets on the piece of paper between her fingers. “That’s the tragedy of it all. Nobody came to claim him. Nobody ever will. No one cares what happens to people in places like this. People like Silas.” She shuddered, and dragged her hand over her mouth, smearing her lipstick. “People like me.”
“But we care.” Lance picked up where Mrs. Wylit was silenced, too full of something inside of her to speak. “He was apparently one of my grandfather’s close friends. We’re probably the closest thing he has to a family now.”
The attendant scratched his head again and sucked air between his teeth. “You promise you’ll write?”
“On my baby’s grave.” She held out her fingers for the cigarette in Lance’s hand. Thunderstruck, he gave it to her. She put her smeary red lips around it and inhaled. When the smoke curled from her nose and mouth, she was from another world, a thing with a bloody mouth and shimmering eyes. “Tell us.”
The attendant eked some half-words from his numb lips before he began to make sense. “Mr. Blanchard was brought here by his landlord — said he’d lost his mind and couldn’t pay the rent anymore, couldn’t locate any relatives. The old man had no place to go, and he was deteriorating. Quickly, mind you. Dementia, and, er...” He motioned clumsily to Mrs. Wylit. “Like you were saying to Silas...”
“Trauma.” The cherry of the cigarette glowed in her vast, bloodshot eyes as Mrs. Wylit took another lungful.
“He was pretty far gone when he came. Very confused. He’d wake up one day and think he was back in hospital after being wounded at the Somme. We’d all try to set him straight, and it’d turn into an argy-bargy every time. He was with us for about half a year, and then one night he faded away. It was peaceful-like, if that eases you any. Say, mind if I...” He put up two fingers and brought them briefly to his lips.
Lance gave him a cigarette and lit it for him. “Got to hurry before they miss me.” The attendant coughed and his smoke mingled with Mrs. Wylit’s. “Right. What’d you say your granddad’s name was?”
“Harold Marlin,” said Lance.
“Aye, he called me Harold or Harry a few times.” The attendant gave a series of sad shakes of his head.
James perked up with a sudden thought that blazed across his brain like lightning. “Did he ever talk about someone called Matthew?”
“Matthew? Aye, not often, but sometimes.”
“What did he say?” Arthur took an eager step forward.
The attendant coughed on his cigarette again as Arthur and his umbrella blotted out the outline of the gray sun. “It never really made sense, but he would say things like, oh, Matthew’s in Scotland and he’s all alone, he’ll never come out of that house now, he’s never coming home.”
“Scotland!” James cried, with such a start he nearly fumbled his umbrella. “Scotland! Matthew’s in Scotland!”
“Scotland’s a big place, mate,” Lance tempered as he squeezed James' shoulder. “Did he mention where in Scotland Matthew was? Any city names, counties, anything?”
The attendant shook his head no, and stole a glance at his watch. “I’ve really got to run, or Nurse Hartley’ll have my head like John the Baptist’s on a dinner platter.”
“Belongings.” There was a sudden spark in Arthur’s eyes. “Items, a suitcase — did Mr. Blanchard come to you with luggage?”
“The landlord sold off anything of value, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” James snapped, unable to help his tone. The tension inside him was as taut as a violin string. “Are you daft, man? We aren’t interested in money or valuables, we need to know where to find Matthew.”
“All right, the landlord did bring a suitcase. It had pictures, papers, clothes — things he couldn’t get a farthing for to pay the back rent, you know.”
“Where is the suitcase?” Without realizing what he was doing, James dropped the umbrella and put his hands on the attendants shoulders, and hooked his fingers into the fabric of the man’s uniform. “Please tell me it wasn’t tossed out or burnt—”
“No, no, it’s in storage.” The attendant tried to step back, but James had him fast. “There’s a shed round back beneath the water tower. It’s where we put everything that isn’t... claimed, you know.”
“We need his suitcase.” Arthur drew up, it seemed, even a few inches taller.
“Let me go, mate, people could be watching.” The attendant pushed James' hands away, and then stuck the cigarette back in his mouth. “Look, I can’t do that — I really shouldn’t have told you what I did.”
“It’s our only chance.” Lance’s knuckles were white on the umbrella handle. “C’mon, mate, you’ve been such a friend so far. You want Vi to write, she’ll write — a hundred letters, two hundred —”
The attendant backed up, and slowly climbed the steps without turning his body away from them. “I’ve done all I can.” He flicked his spent smoke into a puddle. “You know where it is, and you know what happened to him. Any of the rest of it’s on you.” He turned to Mrs. Wylit. “I’m sorry I can’t do better than that, luv. I pray, for Silas’s sake, that what I’ve given you is worth a note or two. He seems to think you’ll have plenty to talk about.” With that, he disappeared inside the vast, echoing halls of the hospital.
Moments later, the taxi arrived, and they rode in stony silence back down toward Lincoln. The driver, a kindly sort, it seemed, took them to his cousin’s home not far from the cathedral. The woman appeared shrew-like, but was willing to let them stay in the furnished apartment above her tea shop for the night, though she usually required a monthly lease. They must look quite the pathetic and bedraggled crew, James thought, as they ascended the stairs in a cloud of sweet smells from the shop below.
In truth, they were tired, they were hungry, they were defeated, and each of them could sincerely use a bath. Lance yanked open one of the front windows to let in the sultry after-rain mist, and smoked with angsty movements, vacant eyes fixed on the street below. Mrs. Wylit collapsed into an armchair and gave her mud-splattered heels a dismissive kick before she lit a cigarette of her own. James went to Arthur, and they sat on the plaid sofa without touching.
“Now is the winter of our discontent.” Mrs. Wylit quoted, breaking the silence before blowing a very acceptable smoke ring. They watched it float up to the ceiling before being chopped to bits by the fan blades.
“Vi,” James all but whispered. He put his hand on Arthur’s knee for support — he couldn’t get the words out on his own. Arthur paused a long moment before putting his hand over James', obscuring it completely. “Vi, what... what baby—”
“What are you looking for out there?” Mrs. Wylit asked Lance. “That geezer with the old rotting Al Capone coat?”
It was the first that Mrs. Wylit had acknowledged their shadow figure, and Lance jerked his head back in their direction. The shock was momentary, however, and he soon turned his pouting, morose face back to the window. “He’s not there, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Arthur tried this time. “Mrs. Wylit, what were you talking about a baby—”
Mrs. Wylit sucked in a drag. “I suppose it won’t be long. We’re really not far from that le Wigford place, especially if o
ne takes the bus. He’ll make his way. Like a cat, really.” She put the stick to her mouth again, and then shoved her hand into her bag to rummage for the flask. “Drive off into the middle of nowhere and toss pussy out, and low and behold she’s back the next day.”
“Vi,” James began slowly. “Are you saying you saw the man in the brown coat, the one that you and Arthur chased in the market? Here? Outside of St. Mary le Wigford’s?”
“Outside, no.” She ashed right on the carpet, and Arthur slid the heavy glass ashtray in her direction while James used his foot to rub it into the fibers so it would disappear. If only it were so easy to get every stain out, he thought. Out, damned spot.
“Try inside,” said Mrs. Wylit.
“Inside!”
“It’s not like the dear janitor locked us in.” She stabbed out her cigarette. “It was right before dawn. I woke up for a wee and there he was, over by the nave door. He must have seen me moving, because out he darted, a rabbit back into his hole.”
“Why didn’t you wake us?” James demanded.
“What, after you finally fell asleep? We all know the insomniac you are.” She poured fire down her throat again. “Besides, we’d never have caught him. He’s a quick one.”
“I don’t understand. I can’t think who it could be.” James pushed up from the sofa and paced behind it. He alternated between wringing his hands and rubbing his chin. “Why is he following us?” James froze, and looked at Arthur. “You don’t think it’s the police, do you?”
“I think if we were going to be arrested, it would have happened already.” Lance stood to put a reassuring hand on James' arm. James pulled away and went to the small galley kitchen to draw a glass of water from the tap.
“I agree it’s strange,” Lance went on, as he lent over to put out his cigarette, “but we have bigger problems. Wouldn’t you agree, mate?” He bumped Arthur’s shoulder with his fist. Arthur nodded without looking up. “I mean, are we finished? Is this really the end of our little endeavor? It certainly seems that way to me, I don’t know about the three of you.” He shook his blonde head. “I never thought I’d disappoint Granddad like this.”
“Isn’t only about you,” Arthur rumbled from where he sat on the couch, elbows rested on his broad knees. He cradled his head in his hands and his black curls tumbled forward over the tips of his fingers. “James and I...” A strange twist agitated his mouth for a moment. “Mr. Marlin was... if it wasn’t for him...”
“He was directly responsible for our relationship,” James picked up for him, as he often did when words didn’t come easily. He knew how much it embarrassed Arthur to stutter, and he tended to relapse during moments of high emotion. He often would cross his arms and say to James, Well, you’re a writer, you find a way to say it. James went on. “Mr. Marlin and Nim helped us understand who we are, and that we deserve to be happy, despite what the rest of the world would say. And if Mr. Marlin wanted us to find Matthew, well, then we must find him. That’s it — we haven’t any other recourse.”
“I wasn’t trying to make it seem like it was for me to do, my problem.” Lance leaned defensively against the doorframe leading to the front hall of the little flat. “He was my flesh and blood, but before he was in my life, he was in yours.” He raked his hand through his hair, and it stood up, waving like wheat.
“Then what the bloody hell are you all arguing about then?” Mrs. Wylit shrilled suddenly, and launched her empty flask at the wall. It clanged, ringing like a bell, clearer and sweeter than James would have thought. “Find it. Find a damn way to do it, then.” She marched on unsteady feet into the kitchen where she set about rifling through the drawers. They watched her in awe as she finally came up with a pad of paper and a pencil. She threw herself back down into the chair and perched the paper on her thigh to begin writing.
“Dear... Silas,” she began, and then crossed it out. “My dear friend Silas... how have you been since I last saw you, which was this morning? I have been... very... bad.” She licked the end of the pencil. “That’s not a very descriptive word,” she said. “James, what should I write instead? Disappointed? Devastated?”
“How about ‘drunk?’” Lance snapped.
“She’s right.” Arthur rose to his feet on tree trunk legs.
“Well, of course she needs another word besides ‘bad,’” James agreed. “What is this, a primary school composition?”
“He means about doing something.” Lance uncrossed his arms and stood close to Arthur, who had wandered to the window to stare out into the sunset. “What should we do? Arthur, if you’ve got an idea, share it, mate.”
“Said he gave us everything he could. Really, it was everything we needed,” Arthur rumbled into the sinking light of day that bathed the panes of wavy, water stained glass. “We know where the suitcase is. All we have to do is go and get it.”
“What, from the asylum?” James' eyes shot wide, green ringed in white.
Lance and Arthur nodded in sync, looking at one another with their determined jaws clenched.
“They’ll have night watchmen, for sure,” Lance reasoned, still looking at Arthur and gauging his approval. “But we can get past them. Especially if there’s something else happening in the hospital that might require their attention.”
“A distraction.” The hint of a smile chased over Arthur’s features. “Mrs. Wylit,” he asked, “how’d you like to see that Silas fellow again?”
Chapter 22
“Well, gentlemen. Mrs. Wylit.” Lance gave a mockingly formal bow, one hand still on the rim of the cab’s door. “Perhaps we’ll see you in the clink later as we all await the King’s pleasure. Sorry. The Queen’s pleasure”
“Be careful.” James tapped on the glass of his window and rolled it down. Arthur bent, and blocked the sliver of moon from his vision. James reached through the door and grabbed his jacket sleeve. “Whatever’s — look, do be careful, Arthur.”
Arthur held his gaze, green to green, for a long moment, before breaking it away. His features were sullen and immobile; he was anxious, assuredly, about the task before them, but James could sense something else running beneath, as though he held dowsing rods and had discovered an underground aquifer. Arthur looked at Lance and said, “I will.”
The cab left Arthur and Lance at the bottom of the lane that led up to the asylum, and continued on to the front door to dispose of James and Mrs. Wylit. The hospital grounds were bordered by hedges and a row of trees that provided cover and a chance to sneak in unseen.. The night was, as luck would have it, especially dark, with a slivered moon and intermittent clouds that blocked the stars. Of course, there were floodlights attached to sections of the building, but their light wash was by no means comprehensive. St. John’s was old, and its time was running out, now that the war was over and wards such as these were closing all over the country in lieu of more modern facilities. There was a chance, with a distraction, that Lance and Arthur would be able to sneak to the shed that the orderly had revealed to them.
Back at the flat, there had been much discussion about who would be best for each job. James had pushed to accompany Arthur — even with the strange way Arthur had been acting, he couldn’t imagine one of them going to jail without the other. James wasn’t strong, but he could be fast on quiet feet. These were skills that aided him in the past when he’d needed to escape Morgan and his gang.
Arthur, however, wouldn’t hear of it. Lance himself agreed when James brought up how often Lance used charisma to get himself out of trouble, and wouldn’t that mean he’d be better running interference for Mrs. Wylit? This logic fell on deaf ears. Arthur wanted Lance to help him break into the shed, and to play lookout, and that was that.
It was so rare when Arthur insisted on something that James was unsure how to react. In the end, he’d thrown up his hands and the discussion (if you could call it that) had ended there. Lance seemed to have no issue deferring to Arthur, though James wished he’d shown more backbone. Perhaps he was feeling guilty
for what they’d done, which James supposed he rightly should. Why should he hold all the guilt for what had happened in St. Mary le Wigford?
Mrs. Wylit lolled next to him on the seat. She fumbled open her bag and withdrew the mostly-empty bottle of pear brandy they’d found abandoned in the kitchen cabinet in the rental flat. As she raised it to her lips, James snatched it from her grasp. Mrs. Wylit cursed and stared him down with a bloodshot, iron gaze.
James looked at the bottle, and smelt it. He recoiled, but nevertheless brought it to his mouth and took a long pull. Though he managed to swallow it, he fell into a coughing fit that brought tears to his eyes. Mrs. Wylit guffawed and slapped the back of the seat. The cabbie glanced in the rearview mirror and chuckled as well.
“Ugh, good God.” James caught his breath and shoved the bottle back into Mrs. Wylit’s hands. “I thought you drank that garbage to feel better.”
Mrs. Wylit toasted him, and took a slug herself. “It’s the initial burn, lad. It goes away.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re quite numb to it,” James snapped as the cab pulled up to the front steps of the hospital.
“Quick, do my face.” Mrs. Wylit reached into her bag again and handed James her lipstick. “I’m so excited I’ve gone trembly.”
“Ah, young love.” James took the lipstick and cupped Mrs. Wylit’s face in one hand. With the other, he smeared the cheap lipstick over her mouth.
“Beautiful,” the cab driver chortled.
“Bugger off,” she said, the second word encased in an unladylike burp. “C’mon, James. Fate awaits us.”
After he had received his quid, the cab driver was more than happy to speed off into the darkness, away from the bughouse, as he called it. And equally happy to get away from whatever his four passengers were planning.
They pounded on the doors until a wary janitor made the mistake of letting them in, only to watch them race up the staircase to follow the signs for the men’s ward. There, James learnt a few things that he had not previously known.
First, apparently James’s understanding of how the insane were treated was based more on novels and radio dramas than reality. One of the first rooms they’d passed was a large, open space with a circle of chairs in the center. A man in a lab coat sat next to a patient, who stood in front of his chair to address the audience. “Some days I’m happy, frighteningly happy. Others, I want to hurt...” In the few moments he’d watched, James had been entirely taken aback by what he’d seen. He’d expected drooling patients in straight jackets. These men sat and listened to one another, some smoking, looking like a group of blokes meeting for a quiet cuppa.
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